


Battle Scars

by byhisownstandardshefailed



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Battle of Savannah, M/M, The Southern Campaign, Winter 1779
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 05:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16825924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byhisownstandardshefailed/pseuds/byhisownstandardshefailed
Summary: John returns to headquarters for a brief visit from his Southern Campaign. I believe it was sometime in December of 1779, when the book Washington's Indispensable Men suggested Laurens visited camp. He shares his self doubt about his performance as a field officer and Hamilton expresses concern over some neglect John has shown to their relationship.





	Battle Scars

December 1779  
My horse’s breath huffs out in clouds of steam as I kick him into a canter. The cold night air was taxing on the both of us, but I could see the dim lights of camp ahead. We are greeted by the sentry and after a brief introduction are allowed to pass into the camp with directions to the house Washington and his military family had claimed for their operations. I urge my horse into a brisk trot and turn him towards headquarters. The stench of the camp rose up to greet me. The cold conceals most foul smells caused by excrement, carcasses and bodily odors, but the fires warm the camp just enough to reveal the sickening odors. I ride by quickly. I pity the men who live in such miserable conditions and remember once more the twinge of guilt that accompanies the privileges I enjoy. These men will huddle in crowded huts and tents with empty stomachs tonight while I am put up in a bed and fed by the household servants.  
The pale walls of the house stand out in the darkness, the windows glowing with soft yellow candlelight. It is distanced far enough from the troops that the disorder and stench of the camp can be forgotten. Congressmen and foreign delegates can be hosted here and allowed only to see the best outfitted and drilled regiments march past while being entertained by officers and their aides.  
I can hear movement in the house as the clatter of my horse’s hooves on the drive alert the household of my arrival. A dark figure appears in the doorway and descends from the porch to the drive. He holds a letter which he has yet to lift his eyes from. I recognize his frame immediately. My dear Hamilton strides towards me hand outstretched, he thinks me a dispatch rider bringing more letters for him to toil over. I can’t help but smile at his mistake. I take his hand when he holds it out for me in expectation of a letter. He startles and looks up at me, his face alight with surprise.  
“Jack?!” he exclaims gripping my hand and staring up at me. I grin at him.  
“That was some welcome Mr. Hamilton.” I tease as I climb down from the saddle and embrace him.  
“I thought you would stay in Philadelphia,” he says breathlessly, his face tucked into the lapels of my coat.  
“You thought I would travel this far North for the winter and not visit?” I ask shifting the reins from one hand to another so I can put my arms around him. He pulls back slightly and lifts his hand to my cheek, his thumb brushing away a strand of hair that fell from my queue.  
“You’re so cold. Come inside. Have you eaten?” He asks while fussing with my coat. I brush his hands away and start walking towards the house.  
“Yes, I stopped to water my horse at an inn and took my supper there.” I assure him as I unload my saddle bags and hand my horse off to one of the guards. Hamilton appears satisfied with that answer. The house is quiet, the General has retired for the night and only Tilghman greets me from where he sits at the table penning a personal letter. Hamilton is quick to spirit me away up the stairs. The absence of Meade, McHenry and Gibbs tonight (I was told they had wandered off for the night in search of stronger liquor and fresh company) granted us a room to ourselves.  
As soon as the latch slides closed on the door behind us he is upon me. His lips crash into mine and I hold him tightly against me.  
“Alexander,” I say softly as I pull away to look at him, “God I missed you.”  
He stares at me for a moment before speaking. “I was told that you had been wounded.”  
I pause, “By who?”  
He toys with my cravat, “Your father. It’s really quite embarrassing that I must resort to him to hear of your wellbeing.”  
I pull back and sit down on the bed, “I did not wish to worry you.”  
He scoffs and paces the floor in front of me, “You thought that neglecting to write me would not raise more concern than informing me you had been wounded?”  
I do not have a reasonable response to this and I hang my head low. He approaches and lifts my chin gently so I am forced to meet his eyes again.  
“Show me.” he says softly.  
I startle and turn my head away from him so his fingers no longer cradle my jaw. He moves closer and I straighten. “Show you what?” I ask.  
“Show me where they hurt you.” he demands. I stand to remove my coat and he helps me out of it before folding the garment over the back of a chair. His nimble fingers unbutton the waistcoat and set it aside. He frowns as I wince at the strain of lifting my right arm to pull my shirt over my head. I sit down again and he draws near, his long fingers ghosting over the pale marks left on my skin by bullets, bayonets and swords. I see him glance at the dark slash on my shoulder where a bullet had cut through the flesh at Germantown. He traces the ridges before moving on to fresher marks, still pink and tender to the touch. His face tightens with worry as his thumb brushes over the ragged scarring from where the field surgeon had cut deeper into the bullet’s bloody trail in search of bone fragments that would fester and cause infection. I had been fairly stoic when I was operated on at Germantown, but I had the benefit of laudanum and Hamilton’s company then. At Coosawhatchie I had whimpered through the procedure and the humiliation of my failings as an officer. He moves on, fingers tracing marks on my chest and torso that had drawn blood but had not driven deep enough to kill or maim. His fingers pause on a small gash on my side, as few inches below my ribs and centered in the middle of my abdomen. He raises his eyes to meet mine and I shiver under his light touch.  
“A bayonet. At Savannah we fought hand to hand. One of the redcoats broke through my defenses with the end of a bayonet,” I pause as his fingers trance the scar’s downward curve. “One of my men knocked it away with his sword before it was thrust into my guts. He left himself open in doing so and fell down dead at my feet a moment later.”  
His hand moves from the mark to my face. “You cannot blame yourself for that.” he reminds me almost coldly.  
I shift uncomfortably, the cold night air makes my bare skin tingle and I cannot help but feel vulnerable. Perhaps that was his intention.  
“Did you hear of my action at Coosawhatchie?” I ask him. He nods.  
“I lost 2 men there and got half a dozen more wounded in a ridiculous attempt at holding ground from which the main force was retreating. Do you blame me for that?” I ask soberly. He says nothing but reaches up to pull the ribbon from my queue and comb out my hair with his fingers so it lays loose.  
“You have berated yourself over that haven’t you? It would be pointless for me to do so as well,” he says calmly. I watch him stand and undress, exchanging his uniform for a nightshirt and letting his hair down.  
“What of Savannah?” I ask. “I stood over a ditch of dead men I had lead into battle and envied the casualties of this war.”  
He frowns as he digs through my saddlebag and then tosses my nightshirt onto the bed beside me.  
“Your flirtations with death baffle me John. You charge into every opportunity for harm to befall you, then lament that you have not been struck down. Do you not see the opportunity this war brings? Should we succeed in this endeavor we will be tasked with building the foundations of a new nation. We have the potential to shape the lives of millions of people who will come after us. I want to build a place in this world where I will be remembered as more than Washington’s pet, and I want my children to grow up unhindered by the disgrace of my past.”  
“You don’t have any children.” I remind him.  
“But you do,” he retorts.  
I go quiet and Hamilton changes his tone.  
“My dearest I don’t know what you left back in London, but I was immensely surprised upon learning you had fled a new wife and child to throw yourself at death’s door an ocean away. I cannot be blamed for feeling the slightest twinge of betrayal towards you for keeping this from me John.”  
The words are bitter sweet. I pull away before meeting his eyes. “Her name is Martha. We were friends.” I take a deep shuddering breath before continuing. “She was sweet, and she was kind to me after Francis had withdrawn his affections. One night I had a fair bit to drink and her father insisted I stay the night at his house instead of drunkenly wandering the streets of London. She came to my room and….well…..you know how women are.”  
“I’m not sure I do,” Hamilton admits.  
I sigh and take his hand. He looks at me with confusion for a moment but then his face softened.  
“What’s her name?” he asks gently.  
“Who?”  
“Your daughter.”  
I pull my hand away from his before telling him, “Frances Eleanor Laurens.”  
He gets up slowly then leans in to kiss my temple. I wonder if he will press the subject further, but he stays silent as he goes to the washbasin and splashes cold water on his face and neck.  
I follow his example and ready myself for bed in silence. My daughter’s name hovers over us like a curse. Alex settles himself in the small camp bed and looks up at me.  
“I’m not angry with you. I can’t be. We can’t afford to be angry at one another.” he reminds me. He pulls me close to him as I lay beside him and his hand finds the scar on my abdomen again. His thumb traces over it several times before he speaks.  
“This could have killed you.”  
“I wish it had.” I tell him. I feel his breath on my neck and the gentle press of his lips to the skin there as his arms tighten around me.  
“Do not say such things. One day it might come to pass. Have you considered that John? Do you mean to rob me of my dearest friend? Frances of her father?” he asks me.  
I am relieved that he does not mention Martha, but I deny him a response. Instead he takes my hand in his.  
“I’m sorry Alex.”  
He squeezes my hand gently. “I know. I would have followed you South if Washington would have allowed it.”  
I smile a little at that. I wish he had been able to accompany me. The Southern Campaign had lacked the companionship that had helped me endure Valley Forge and our efforts throughout 1778. When I had ridden South I had found myself rather isolated. The Southern officers had not offered the friendship I had found in Washington’s family nor among the Baron’s aides. Instead I found proud men who thought me a naive boy. I had attempted my antics at Coosawhatchie in a vain attempt to impress them and had demoted myself from laughing stock to a prideful fool who could not be trusted in an action. Perhaps I had withheld my letters from Hamilton out of fear that he would come to see me in the same light. My neglect had wounded him and I regretted that. Yet he had allowed me to return to his embrace without consequence, perhaps the only place in this world in which I had felt some form of validation. It was beside him that I had been emboldened to entertain the notion of surviving the war and it was with his support that I had drafted my plans for a black battalion. In leaving him I had slowly watched all that I had gained fade away.  
“Alex?”  
“Yes?”  
“Thank you,” I say quietly.  
“For?” he asks with some confusion.  
I roll over to face him and bring my hand up to his cheek. “For listening when nobody else would. For writing to me even when I disgraced you by neglecting to reply. For taking me back after I had been an arse to you.”  
He looks at me with surprise, then a hint of smugness. I pull him close and kiss him on the mouth. His smugness grows exponentially. I’ve made a stammering fool of myself and he knows it. Somehow I can’t bring myself to care. I ride out again in two days, I can’t afford to waste a moment with him.


End file.
